Dreams
by InfiniteDevotion
Summary: For her, the war didn't happen. For him, it was all too real. Slight AU


He hobbled into the room, glancing around wearily. There was something off about it, and yet, he couldn't put his finger on it. Shifting his gaze from the large maple bookcase to the marble fireplace, there was nothing different about anything present in the room upon first glance. But he was too fatigued to make a complete check of everything in sight; the plush sofa littered with plump cushions and fleecy blankets was calling out to his aching limbs and spent mind.

Falling onto the mass of pillows and immediately sinking into them, his eyes started to droop. The blissful black was beckoning him. He let his mind blank and sleep claimed him as one of its own.

* * *

"You've changed." The statement dripped sarcasm and animosity. A woman sat, in a long leather coat, on the edge of a cliff. Her features were stony, though her eyes betrayed her emotions. They were smoldering, a pair of icy hazel orbs glaring at him. Slender calves peeked out from beneath the hem of the jacket, dangling freely over the escarpment.

She shot daggers at him. He was sure that if looks could kill, he would be nothing more than a pile of smoking ashes on the rocks. He scoffed, and made to turn, but was stopped by her firm hand on his shoulder, gripping it like a vice. Her voice floated into the air between them.

"You have changed. Before, you would never drive yourself so hard. Never push yourself this far. You're different. Not the same as before."

Her voice was sill icy, but did not hold the venom that was present earlier. There was a hint of concern. Only a hint.

But it was there.

His platinum eyebrows rose into his hairline.

"Have I? Really? Or is this nothing more than the me from out there finally being revealed to you? How could you possibly know what I am really like beyond this dreamscape we have created together?" His voice rang out sharply, passionately, coldly. He scoffed and shook his head. "You haven't changed at all, have you? Ignorant, naive, clueless little girl." His voice had become lower as he had been speaking; by then end, there was nothing more than enraged undertones.

His eyes shone, slate orbs flashing in fury.

His fingers made their way to hers on his shoulder and gripped them harshly. His voice was still in a low whisper. "How dare you think that you know me. How dare you assume I am here for nothing other than your company." He wrested out of her grip on his shoulder, and walked towards where she had been sitting when he had arrived on the cliff, walking until his toes were curled over the dull edge of the rocks.

Looking out into the distance, he saw only the daunting black: there was nothing there except for the incessant breaking of waves against the base of the cliff, the rustle of the wind in the long grass. He was in turmoil. Why was he here? He would much rather have been sleeping peacefully, silently, thoughtlessly, but the cursed dreamscape had caught him just as he had collapsed onto the lounge.

Swearing loudly, he whipped around and faced her again. There was nothing holding back his torrent of raw emotion. "I came back from the war." He spat it out. Hearing her gasp of horror, he turned around to face the black again.

"I came back from the war, the war which brought me here in the first place. While I there, there was no reason for me not to enjoy the company of someone not from the Corps. There was no reason for me not to revel in sane conversation about everything except the blood and the death. But I'm home now. I'm back in my life. I came home, supposedly the same as before." His voice lost its anger, and reverted to a melancholic sigh.

"From soldier to civilian. Loyalty; camaraderie, I shunned them. Hardened rejection of the hate and misery that this god-forsaken war bestows upon its victims, finding solace only in the innocence of humanity not infested by its corrupting vices. But now a soldier retired, scars replace the idealisms I embraced before . . . I watched them die; and I felt nothing.

"I came home empty, emotionally devoid. A mere husk of the entity I was before the maelstrom that was the war. I came home scarred. Marked for life. My body aches, my mind battle-hardened and weary. You're right. I'm not the same. I never will be the same. But I'm not different either."

He heard her walk up behind him, and felt her put her hand on his shoulder. "I know that you are not the same . . . I have seen you, out there. I know that this is not how you really are . . . The you from before is the real you. Please -"

But he didn't want comfort, pity. He didn't want to be felt sorry for. There was no reason for him to be different. So he cut off her murmured comforts, shook out of her grasp once more and walked away into the grass.

Looking back at her, seeing her unruly curls dancing behind her, he said five words in a low voice, and continued walking until he knew that he would be at the point where he would be able to get a decent sleep before waking up.

* * *

Waking up with a start, he looked around. He knew that he had ventured into the dreamscape; he felt more tired than he did when he had fallen asleep, he had a splitting migraine and he was in an awkward position on the floor near the lounge. His blonde hair was matted, sticking to his face where he had broken out in a cold sweat. The cushions were around the room, no doubt from the fit caused by his rage.

The room still seemed off to him: something just wasn't right.

Then it hit him.

A waft of sea breeze and grass stalks.

It was an aroma that he could recognise anywhere, especially after spending almost half of every day on the cliff face. He sat there in bewilderment, unable to fathom how the rich scent was here, in his house, surrounding him while he was awake.

Standing up gingerly, and using the small table for support, he slowly stumbled through the house, hoping the smell would lead him to something. When he got to the front door, he nearly collapsed at the strength of it. It was suffocating; as nice as it was, it was overwhelming in such force.

He needed air. With his eyes closed at the effort needed to remain upright, he fumbled for the handle of the door, and inhaled sharply when cold air greeted him. But when he opened his eyes, he almost wished that he had collapsed from the miasma within the house.

For standing on his doorstep, in nothing but a long leather coat, was_ her._


End file.
